by Lauran Paine
There was a long delay before the original speaker replied. “You fellers stay here. They might try to sneak around to their wagon. I’ll go look at the roominghouse and maybe a few other places. . . . Where’s George?”
“In the wagon. Maybe asleep. You know George.”
“Go see. Put a little scare into him so’s he’ll stay awake.”
Charley eased down upon a round of fir firewood and shoved back his hat. When Boss sat down beside him he could see that Waite was smiling.
Boss whispered. “It might be easier goin’ after the marshal than hangin’ around here waiting to catch these fellers.”
Charley absently nodded, seeming to acknowledge that he had heard what had been said, rather than because he liked Boss’s suggestion.
He raised an arm in the darkness. One of the townsmen was raising each foot high, clear of the mud, before putting it down again. He was approaching the woodshed. The way he was doing it made him look like a stork. Being that careful of stepping into more mud was an exercise in futility; there was nothing but mud, not just in the alley but everywhere else.
Boss and Charley faded in opposite directions with the tumbled mound of firewood to conceal their movements.
The oncoming man reached the front of the shed and came in a few feet where the higher interior was fairly dry, then turned his back to be able to watch the alley both north and south, and went to work rolling a cigarette.
Chapter Thirteen
Ragged Clouds
Boss was closest to the vigilante, whose tobacco smoke came lazily back into the shed. He had time to consider the situation, and while he was not entirely sure he could sneak up on the watcher from the rear, he was certain that whatever happened had to be accomplished in silence, or otherwise the other watchers would hear the commotion, drizzle or no drizzle.
Boss looked around in the gloom, saw a bone-dry old scantling that had been flung against the north wall of the shed, picked it up, and began his stalk.
The smoker flipped his quirley forward, where it fell into soft mud and winked out. The man stretched, reached inside his shirt to scratch, then twisted to find something to sit on. The fir rounds made an ideal improvised seat. He rolled a dry one close to the front overhang and sat down on it.
Boss paused between soundless strides seeking sign of Charley Waite. He was unsuccessful and worried for fear that Charley might also be stalking the seated man. This was not one of those situations that required two men.
Somewhere beyond Boss’s vision southward a nightbird whistled. It was not a very good imitation. The seated man arose, stepped out almost to the end of the roof where drizzle would have soaked him, and peered to his right.
Fearful the man might turn completely around when he returned to his seat, Boss sank to one knee hoping to blend with the big pile of firewood.
But the stranger did not turn. He stepped fully forward into the drizzle and made his own poor imitation of a nightbird. Someone called guardedly from the direction of the campwagon, his voice quick and exultant. “Them bastards had money in here.”
The man Boss was stalking turned quickly toward the wagon. “Money?”
“Yeah. I found a tinbox buried under a flour sack.”
“How much money?”
“How in hell would I know? It’s dark in here.”
The vigilante was quiet, probably speculating about what he should do—abandon his post to go see the tinbox, or remain where he was?
Another voice, reedy and quick, spoke from the interior of the barn. “George?”
The man in the wagon answered shortly. “What?”
“Bring it in here.”
“I’m not supposed to leave the wagon.”
“George? To hell with the wagon. They’ve had plenty of time to get down here. They ain’t coming. Bring the box in here and we’ll divvy up.”
That deep, drawling voice addressed the watcher up at the woodshed from somewhere southward of the barn in the alleyway. “Paul, you keep watch out here. George, do like Alf said, fetch the box into the barn. I don’t think they’re coming either. We been waitin’ for more’n two hours. . . . George?”
“All right,” replied the man in the wagon.
Boss waited for the man called Paul to return to his seat in the shed, but he did not do it. Evidently this abrupt and interesting development concerning Boss’s money had made all the tiring watchers alert again.
The drizzle was slackening; more torn and ragged clouds allowed more light to reach earth. Paul moved back where drizzle could not reach him but he did not go all the way back to the pile of wood. Boss had to resume his stalk toward a clear area of perhaps six or seven feet between the rounds and the man named Paul.
If the watcher heard anything, or even if he just casually turned, he was going to see Boss when he stepped into the clear area.
Boss abandoned the scantling and brushed a hand over the handle of his holstered Colt, shortened his stride, and concentrated on making no sound as he headed toward the front of the shed six inches at a time, scarcely breathing and not once taking his eyes off the watcher’s back.
The man craned to watch a shadow flicker through mist from the wagon toward the dark opening of the livery barn, then wagged his head, rummaged for his tobacco sack, and stood hipshot as he went to work rolling a smoke.
Boss would be in plain sight now if Paul turned. Paul pocketed the little Durham sack and looked down as he completed the roll, then raised the quirley to lick the fold before pinching the end to be lighted. Boss waited until Paul’s hands were up near his face before drawing his Colt and cocking it.
That unmistakable sound did not carry beyond Paul, who seemed suddenly to have turned to stone, still holding the cigarette up near his face.
Boss spoke in a strong whisper. “Just face around an’ keep your hands up where they are.”
Paul turned. His features looked unhealthily gray inside the shed. His eyes found Boss without difficulty and did not move.
From Paul’s left side Charley Waite appeared like a ghost to lift out the watcher’s six-gun and toss it beyond the wood pile. Charley gave Paul a light shove toward the interior of the shed while Boss kept his eyes on their prisoner without lowering the dog of his six-gun.
Paul was a man of average height with a look of dissipation, but that could have been caused by the poor light and the grayness of the hour. He was probably in his forties. When Charley went over him for hideouts and found none, Paul finally found his voice.
“You’re not goin’ to make it. The marshal’s been passing word around that you’re freegrazers.”
Boss said, “What were you doing out at our wagoncamp a few nights back?”
Paul’s bafflement was obviously genuine when he replied. “What the hell are you talkin’ about? I never heard of any of you fellers until you brought that boy to town.”
Boss shrugged. It had been a shot in the dark. He had not really thought these townsmen had been part of the group that had killed Mose.
“How many others are around here?” he asked, and Paul did not even hesitate. In fact, he sounded vindictively exultant. “More’n you two can handle. Three, not counting the marshal.”
Boss smiled without a shred of humor. “The marshal’s lookin’ for us around town. Get belly down and don’t make a damned sound or I’ll bust your skull like a pumpkin.”
Paul got flat out amid the sawdust, pieces of bark, and ancient dust. Charley tied his arms behind his back, lashed his legs at the ankle, and as added insurance, gagged him with his own neckerchief.
They left him lying there, went forward to the front of the shed, did not notice that there were now only a few veiny runnels of rainwater coursing in the mud, considered the opposite barn opening, the approaches to it, saw no one, heard nothing, and walked out into plain sight to cross toward the faded, whitewashed rear wall of the livery barn.
Charley was encouraged; he was sure the men inside the barn were busily divvying up Boss’s m
oney. Boss, on the other hand, did not think beyond the fact that he was being robbed of his operating capital. Where he halted beside Charley with his back brushing whitewashed rough siding, he leaned to whisper something, but Charley’s abruptly raised left hand stopped him from making a sound.
Somewhere, a man was approaching. Charley had picked up the sound of boots slogging through clinging mud. The sound appeared to be coming from either inside the barn or outside it southward. He was troubled by his inability to pinpoint the origin of the noise, but was perfectly satisfied as to what was making it.
He twisted to whisper to Boss, and froze.
Behind them at the corner of the building a man was standing in watery moonlight holding a six-gun. It had not occurred to Charley that those footsteps might be approaching from the north.
The shadow with the gun was partly obscured by the barn’s square shadow, partly by the poor light, and partly by his attire, which was dark. The man did not raise his voice. “Drop the guns.”
Boss, startled to hear someone behind, swung his head before Charley said, “Easy, Boss. It’s the marshal. He’s got a six-gun aimed at your back.”
Charley lifted out his weapon, looked unhappily at the mud, and let the weapon drop. It did not make a sound as it sank.
Boss did the same.
Marshal Poole gestured with his weapon at the same time he raised his voice to alert the men in the barn. “I got ’em. They’re comin’ into the barn.” In a quieter tone as he wigwagged with his Colt, he ordered Boss and Charley to start walking.
The moonlight, which reached a yard or so inside the barn from the alley, did not make even a dent in the darkness farther in. When Waite and Spearman walked in with Marshal Poole driving them, there was not a soul in sight, just a dented old tinbox with a smashed hasp over against a stall front where it had been tossed after being emptied.
A reedy voice called to the lawman, “Damned if you didn’t.” Three men appeared from different areas, guns in hand, to stop a few feet away and stare. One of the men grinned and said in a deep, slow voice, “Were they at the rooming-house?”
Poole’s retort was curt. “No. They was stalking you from out back. George, if you’d been in the damned wagon you’d have seen them. What the hell are you doing in here, all three of you?”
It became clear that the three watchers had made a pact, after dividing Boss’s money among them, not to say a word about it to Marshal Poole. George sounded a little whiney when he said, “The damned tarp leaked. Besides, we was about to give up. We been getting rained on and all since—”
Poole broke in fiercely. “Where’d that box come from? It wasn’t in here before.”
Boss answered flintily. “It come out of our wagon. I kept my operatin’ money in it. You want to know the rest, marshal? They was hollerin’ back and forth out there makin’ enough noise to raise the dead after they found my box. They agreed to come in here and divvy up my money amongst them.”
Marshal Poole’s faintly seen face formed a slow scowl. “Where’s Paul?”
One of his vigilantes replied quickly. “Across the alley. He was to keep watch while we was in here. Over at the woodshed.”
Poole stared at the speaker. “Then why didn’t he see me an’ hear me when I come up behind these two?”
There was no response.
The marshal pointed his pistol barrel toward the broken tinbox. “Pick it up, George. Each of you put the money back into it you taken out of it.”
They obeyed sullenly and the man with the deep voice said, “Al, we been soaked, half froze, hungry, bored stiff, and worn out from standin’ around here half the damned night. Besides that, there wasn’t much money in the damned box . . . A hunnert dollars. Split three ways that don’t hardly even make wages.”
Marshal Poole holstered his gun, ignoring his companions, and gazed at his captives. Without a word he gestured for them to walk toward the front of the barn and the main thoroughfare. His three men started to follow, but one called ahead, “I’ll tell Paul where we’re going. Up to the jail-house.” As this man hurried back in the direction of the alley, Boss and Charley exchanged a look.
The sky was clearing, the moon was descending, and although the roadway was still a millrace, there was no longer a flooding crest out in the center of it, and for most of the walk to the jail-house it was possible to see the plankwalk underfoot.
When they got up there Marshal Poole herded his prisoners in first, and he was followed by two of his vigilantes. The men were seeking places to sit when the third vigilante burst in helping another man whose circulation was not very good. The third man glared accusingly at the prisoners but addressed Marshal Poole. “They left him tied in the woodshed across from the barn.”
Poole was not sympathetic. He considered the man named Paul, who sat on a wall bench and rubbed his arms as he looked back. Eventually Poole said, “All right,” and tossed the tinbox to them. “Divide it an’ go on home. I’ll see you in the morning.”
After they had left, the lawman told his prisoners not to move off their benches while he stoked up the stove and put the coffeepot on. They watched Poole work without moving.
When he returned to his table he perched on a corner of it regarding Boss and Charley and began wagging his head. “You should have left the country like Mister Baxter told you to do.”
Boss eyed the lawman sulfurously, but remained silent.
Marshal Poole shifted from the corner of the table to his chair behind it. “A storm like this one was . . . I doubt like hell if you’ll find any of your cattle.”
Neither of his prisoners looked away or opened his mouth. Poole leaned, clasped both hands atop the table, and gazed at them. “I got a whole slew of charges against you, from disturbing the peace to committing public nuisances. And those are only for openers.” Marshal Poole went to test the coffee, filled a cup for himself, and returned to his desk with it. “When Mister Baxter gets back down here he’ll push the other complaints. Like attackin’ his riders, tryin’ to kill them, running damned freegraze cattle over his grassland. Y’know, when the judge gets to Harmonville maybe next month, you boys will be lucky to see the outside of prison walls for ten years.
“On your feet. Past that cellroom door and be real careful.”
Chapter Fourteen
Sunshine
Charley awakened first. Boss was lying on his back across the cell, one leg draped over the edge of his bunk, snoring with sufficient resonance to create echoes.
Charley considered his boots, left them lying, and walked over to the strap-steel cell door to look around.
There were no other prisoners. There were six cells along a stone corridor, three to a side. The place smelled of mold and dampness. But what caught and held Waite’s attention was dazzlingly brilliant sunlight coming through a high, narrow, barred window in the opposite cell’s front wall. He sighed, listened to the sounds of human activity out in the roadway, and turned as Boss coughed, opened his eyes, and drifted sleep-fuzzy eyes in Charley’s direction.
When Charley said, “Good morning,” Boss grunted up onto one elbow, saw the sunshine, and got heavily to his feet. He gazed at his soggy boots and said, “Only an idiot would say good morning.”
A half hour later the marshal brought two tin plates of something that seemed to be a cross between stew and hash, shoved the plates under the door, and considered his prisoners. “You two look like somethin’ a cat would drag in.”
They ignored him, got their plates, and sat on the edge of their bunks to eat. When Boss had scraped up the last of whatever he had eaten, he cocked an eye at Charley. Marshal Poole went back up front, slammed the cellroom door, and Boss said, “End of the trail.”
Charley was holding a soggy Durham sack and gazing at it when he replied. “Naw. It’s not over until they blow the bugle.”
He arose and moved to the front of the cell again. The scent of mold lingered, but the cell-room was warming up. Those men out in the roadway were callin
g back and forth. Charley thought he heard scrapers and wagons out there. He could imagine how much dumping, spreading, and hauling it was going to take to make Main Street usable again.
Boss spoke from his bunk. “I don’t think that getting out of here would do much good. Like the marshal said last night, the cattle will be scattered to hell and gone.”
Charley turned to study Spearman’s haggard countenance. “I wasn’t thinkin’ about the cattle,” he told Boss. “I was thinkin’ about what happened to Mose and Button. I’d like to be out of here before Baxter rides in.”
Boss said, “How?”
Charley did not reply but went back to place his soggy boots where the slanting sunshine would reach them, then sat on the edge of the bunk again. “I don’t know how. I got a bad feelin’ about the future, Boss.”
“I already told you, it’s the end of the trail. Charley, freegrazing ain’t like it used to be. Sure, we wasn’t popular but, hell, it never before came to anything like this.” Boss was silent for a moment before speaking again. “Baxter,” he muttered without adding anything, and arose to pace the cell. “I’m too old to start over, Charley.”
“If Poole and Baxter have their way, Boss, we’ll both start over, maybe down in Yuma prison. I’ve heard some bad stories about that place.” As he said this, Charley arose to move over into the sunshine. “I’d like to know how Button is.”
Marshal Poole returned later in the day to put drinking water in their cells and to hand each of them an oversized coffee can. As he was relocking the door he said, “The judge’ll be here sooner than I thought. From what the stage driver said, the storm didn’t cause as much damage up north as it did down here.” Poole leaned to look in at them. “I met Sue Barlow in the road a while back an’ told her I had you two in here an’ she said she’d be along directly to see you.” Poole’s slatey eyes were fixed on Charley. “She’s foolish takin’ up for you two. Her an’ her brother both.”
Boss ignored most of all this to ask about Button, but evidently Sue had said nothing about the kid to Marshal Poole, because all he offered was a frown before he departed.
